


The Reunion

by WitchOfTheWilds



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Chose to do dark ritual, Dragon Age II Spoilers, Dragon Age: Origins Spoilers, Grey Wardens, Multi, Post-Dragon Age: Origins, Pre-Dragon Age: Inquisition, Prince Consort, Warden Carver Hawke, Warden against warden
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-24
Updated: 2015-01-26
Packaged: 2018-03-08 21:43:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3224489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WitchOfTheWilds/pseuds/WitchOfTheWilds
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Henric Cousland is Prince Consort of Ferelden, married to the beautiful Queen Anora, daughter of a deceased traitor, with two young children. He hasn't seen his friends that he made during the Fifth Blight in years, including the sultry Morrigan who disappeared with his child shortly after the Archdemon lay vanquished. Whilst is wife is birthing their third child, Henric recieves an unexpected visit from the Grey Wardens claiming they need his help with a new evil possibly surfacing in the north. Along the way he will be ever changed and reunited with old friends and discover unexpected desires.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own anything, all characters and locations property of Bioware and the Dragon Age creators. Please don't sue me, I don't know how to correctly write one of these, sorry.   
> Also I am aware that there are some things wrong in the story as I wrote some of it before playing Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening, so if you see anything that doesnt make any sense (bare in mind this is set in the later part of Act II of DA:2) then please let me know so I can correct anything, thank you.

Prince Consort Henric Cousland sat upon his wife’s throne. The flames of the candles around him warmed the otherwise frigid room, though he could tell that most of Queen Anora’s court were not finding themselves quite as comfortable. They had all been drinking warmed spiced wine for much of the day to celebrate the birth of yet another royal child and so many were somewhat too merry by this time. Arl Eamon and his wife Isolde were amongst the few sober people, though Henric doubted if they would be celebrating even if they had been drinking. Anytime the Arl and Arlessa of Redcliffe had come to court since their young son and heir Connor had been sent away to the circle, they had been a terribly boring pair. Sure enough, they were ever grateful to Henric for he had saved not only the child’s life but also that of Isolde herself, but there seemed to be no joy within either of them anymore.  
For most of the day the Prince Consort was dealing with petty trivial things, or so he saw them at least, debts to be paid to the Crown, guardsmen caught raping a lady of Anora’s household, the sort of thing that Henric believed should fall upon the arl of Denerim. The only thing that momentarily sparked his interest was the matter of a minor southern lord wanting the dalish off of his land. Henric allowed the elves to remain where they wished simply to see what reaction he would get from the lord; not as exciting as he had hoped, little more than a stiff bow.  
At times he wondered if he shouldn’t go to the queen’s side whilst she birthed her third child, but he knew that she would demand that he get back to the throne room and resume his duties. Their’s was a loveless marriage. For a time at least he had thought he might have felt something for her, but the excitement soon dulled away and he discovered that his only true love was the throne. They had had two children already, the twins Princess Celia and Prince Cailan. While the children were still covered in the foulness they had left her womb in, Anora had readily claimed that Celia was her heir and she would hear no more of it, though Henric heard later that it was in fact Cailan who was born first. Henric had wanted to name the children for his parents who died defending their home from Arl Howe all those years before, but Anora had insisted that they each chose a name for one of the children. Despite his momentary anger, he was relieved that she had not chosen to name the prince for her long dead father, Loghain. And yet much to Anora’s disappointment, Henric had chosen the name Cailan for the prince, about which they had argued long into the night, Anora believing that he had only done this to antagonize her. Despite his disputes, Anora was correct. They would hopefully have many more children, those he could name after his parents. Anora would certainly name this child before he was even summoned to her birthing bed; of this he was certain.  
“Presenting to Our Lord Cousland, Prince Consort to Queen Anora Mac Tir and the Arl of Amaranthine, the Grey Warden Commanders Alistair Fitzroy and Ferdinand de Roux.” The court herald called out. Henric sat up instantly at the call of Alistair’s name, though most of the other Fereldens in the court were more attentive to the Orlesian amongst them. They had brought a dozen other wardens with them, all wearing helms so to hide their faces and Alistair was hid amongst them. Ferdinand de Roux was a renowned hero in Ferelden having extinguished the remaining darkspawn in the country along with a creature known as the Arcitect, though that was not public knowledge, but he was of Orlais none the less and there were many patriots who still mistrusted the westerners after the occupation wherein the Rebel Queen had been slain before her young son. The wardens strolled through the court at an unorganised march until reaching the throne, the Orlesian never taking his eyes off of Henric. They all knelt together and at the back of the group Henric could just see the top of Alistair’s sandy blonde hair.  
“My Lord Consort,” Ferdinand’s accent was thick and it took a moment for Henric to fully understand him, “my wardens and I have travelled far and are in dire need of a rest. Any accommodation you could provide would be greatly appreciated.” There was clearly no beating around the bush with this one; but Henric admired that, it reminded him much of himself in his days leading the charge against the darkspawn.  
“All wardens are family to the Crown in Ferelden. Your wardens may find any bed they wish in the royal palace and use it for as long as they wish, granted that it is not occupied first, of course.” This caused titters of laughter amongst the crowd which irked Henric being that he had not actually said anything amusing. “But I do not assume that you have come all the way from Amaranthine to ask for bedding.” Yet another spattering of light giggling ensued.  
“No, My Lord,” Alistair piped up, walking to the front of the crowd of warriors in blue and silver. The Prince Consort’s breath caught in his throat as he saw the man for the first time in years. As handsome as ever though somehow not the man he had once seen as more of a brother to him than Fergus. Ferdinand scowled at him, clearly wishing to have done all the talking himself. Alistair had clearly aged, though no grey spoiled his golden head and not a single wrinkle creased his skin. His eyes were sunken however; he was tired. “We do have some Warden business that would best be discussed in private.”  
“Certainly, Commander. Though I must attend to the rest of my duties. If you would like to join your men’s rest you may, or there are refreshments laid out around the court for you to enjoy the festivities.” The wardens bowed, some more stiffly than others, and all scattered in different directions.  
The last hour of the court dragged like a great sword behind an elven child. Those that Henric had to judge became more and more pitiful and more often than not the sentence was to be thrown in to the cells of Fort Drakon. Henric remembered all too well being imprisoned there with Alistair, both naked in the dark listening to the agonizing cries of those being unjustly tortured. He had wanted to burn it down when he became Prince Consort, but Anora had insisted that the fort was a necessary evil.  
More often than not, Henric found himself looking to Alistair. He was often lingering about Arl Eamon and Isolde and it seemed he had little choice for whenever he moved to speak to another, they would awkwardly shuffle away and pretend to not have seen him. Being a bastard was hard enough, but being a Grey Warden was undoubtedly harder. Often in his time married to the Crown had Henric found himself yearning to re-join Alistair and the Wardens, cutting their way through darkspawnand sleeping by fires on the side of the road, living justly and yet outside the laws of the land.  
Finally, when Henric could join the festivities, he located Ferdinand and Alistair and told them they would be granted a personal audience with him in his apartments. He arrived before them and lit the sconces to give them some light and had the elven servant fetch them three goblets and jug of warm red. Ferdinand entered first and shook Henric’s hand before taking his seat. The prince consort was going to do the same with Alistair but when he walked through the door, the warden commander hugged him tightly. He let go after a long while and begged forgiveness. “There is nothing to forgive, my friend.”Henric insisted as they sat.  
“Alistair Fitzroy?” Henric asked after they had each taken a seat and gulp of wine.  
“After the landsmeet I was a well-known bastard, so I though I may as well give myself the title.” He did not even speak the same way anymore. The years had changed Alistair, and Henric was not entirely sure if it was for the better. “It is good to see you again, Henric, you look well.”  
“I have missed you, my friend. But why are you here?” Henric looked to Ferdinand, a man he had only briefly encountered once. He was a ruggedly handsome man, larger than Alistair and of a darker complexion, possibly having some Antivan in him. His hair was long and tangled to his shoulders and his skin was spoiled by various scars that did little to hinder his odious beauty. The Prince Consort had heard a great many things about Ferdinand de Roux, and not all of them pleasant; many making his own misdeeds look like a donation to needy children.  
“There are rumours amongst our ranks of a corruption most foul.” He said bluntly. Henric’s shock clearly showed on his face. Wardens could not get the Blight; that was one of the few advantages of being one, if not the whole purpose.  
“Darkspawn corruption?”  
“No, but it is not unlike that, we aren’t sure entirely but men have been going missing on patrols and some come back without their groups claiming they turned violent and tried to attack them.”  
Henric sat back and thought for a moment, taking a sip of wine and pursing his lips. “Could you not have dealt with such matters yourselves? I have no part of the wardens any longer, which is why I employed you to deal with the Architect, Ferdinand, and why I instated the both of you as Warden Commander.”  
“With all due respect, My Lord, you do have a place amongst the wardens. Becoming royalty does not excuse you of that. You are needed in the City of Amaranthine immediately.”  
“Amaranthine? Why there? I thought the Wardens were stationed at Vigil’s Keep?”  
“We were,” Alistair cut in, “But there was an attack whilst Ferdinand was dealing with the Architect and we had to make a decision, the city or the keep, we chose to save the people, though many have now left over the years and those who stayed tried to join the Grey Warden’s ranks.”  
“If it’s a problem with mutiny, I am happy to send soldiers your way to cut out the problem.” Henric insisted.  
“No.” Ferdinand’s voice was sharp and definite and yet again Henric was taken aback. He did not remember having been spoken to in such a way for years. “The men need you there, to see that the kingdom has not abandoned us as they always do after the blight. Hopefully that may just the drop of water we need to extinguish this spark before it becomes an open flame that shall swallow your entire kingdom.”  
After a moment, Henric responded. “I cannot decide anything for sure whilst my wife is in labour, but when I have my third child, I will give you my answer.” The angered Ferdinand who rose from his chair so quickly that it toppled over before bowing and leaving the room, presumably to join the other wardens in their rest. Alistair let out a sigh that may have been of relief and relaxed visibly in his chair.  
“That man has a stick so far up his but we could use it as a spit roast.” Henric chuckled, happy to see Alistair at least partway to being his old self. “So, how are you enjoying being king?”  
“I am not king, Alistiar, Anora reminds me of that as often as she can.”  
“I take it you aren’t enjoying your status then?” Alistair’s words were slurring somewhat. He had always had a low tolerance for drink, and Henric was unsure how much he had drunk in the throne room already. Henric recalled a drinking contest between the two of them, Morrigan, Leliana and Zevran. Not surprisingly it was the elf who outlasted them all, Alistair was the first to pass out after having vomited over Morrigan and laughing himself into a headache.  
“Anora has given me absolute control over her armies, but she is such a good politician that I doubt I will see another war in my lifetime.”  
“Do you wish for one?” Henric shook his head and took another sip. From anyone else this may have sounded like a threat, but Alistair had a certain childish naivety that Henric could not help but adore. “And how are your children? I hear they’ve grown up quite well.”  
“Celia is as strong and as wilful as her mother, already training with sword and shield, but Cailan is quite bookish if I am honest. He is certainly the more intelligent of the two and is certainly quite the little scholar.”  
“…Not at all like his namesake.” They finished together, laughing.  
“Honestly, I didn’t think you would be happy married to her, considering everything that happened.” Morrigan. He was talking about her; the sultry black haired witch they had met in the Korcari Wilds shortly after their own first encounter. The whole party had known of their love for one another, not that they had done much to hide it. Morrigan never seemed to have much of a concept of discretion. Alistair and Morrigan scarcely saw eye to eye on anything but both were close to Henric in their own ways and were therefor civil. On the eve of battle, Morrigan had a proposition for her two companions, a dark ritual that would end the need for one of the wardens to sacrifice his life in order to kill the arch demon. They succeeded in creating the child, but after the battle was done and Urthemiel lay vanquished with his darkspawn hordes fleeing back to the deep roads, Morrigan was gone without even a letter which made the decision to become prince consort all that much easier, though he often wondered what became of Morrigan and her child. Rumours spread that she had been seen in the Frostbacks, but none could be certain.  
Nearly four years after the blight had ended, Henric called Ferdinand to him for the second time. He was a seasoned warrior and warden commander and was willing to obey the man who was still the Hero of Ferelden. Henric commanded him to investigate the rumours of the witch which turned into a gruelling ordeal which left Henric with more questions than answers, the biggest one being: ‘Why did I not go with her?’  
“Anora makes me anything but happy, it is my children that bring me joy, Alistair.” The only way Henric ever found that he could stomach impregnating the daughter of the man who left King Cailan to die was by picturing Morrigan instead, her black hair hanging loose about her as she caressed him expertly in the camp after night had descended.  
“You should come with us, your children will be fine whilst you are gone and it won’t be for long, I’m certain.” Alistair pleaded. It was clear to Henric that his friend thought it would not make a lick of difference if he came or no, he just wanted them to be companions once more. It was endearing if not childish, but Henric could not just up and leave, not without Queen Anora’s say so, even if he did want to go.  
“As I have said, I will give you my answer by morning. I can’t say anything else for now.” They both rose, setting their empty goblets down, and Henric showed his friend out, his head a cacophony of possibilities and doubts. 

The child was born a boy, a prince. After a rather lengthy and heated debate, he was given the name Bryce for Henric’s father. Anora was clearly not happy about it but relented in the end calling him petty and childish for wanting to choose the name himself so desperately. Cailan and Celia both instantaneously adored the child. It took Henric yelling at them for them to finally leave the room and allow Anora to nurse, having refused to hand the boy over to a wet nurse. ‘No more,’ she had insisted firmly, ‘We have our heir and two spares; there will no longer be a need for you to come to my bedchamber.’ Henric had not tried to feign his relief, bowing and thanking her with a sarcastic melancholy.  
“I hear Alistair came to court yesterday with a group of wardens,” her voice was as sweet as always, and yet her distaste was apparent, “was he beginning a rebellion in his name as I feared?” At the landsmeet, Anora had insisted upon Alistair’s execution for fear that he would someday return with an army. Henric, however, being her swift right hand had been firm in his belief that Alistair had no desire to be king and he doubted he would even be able to unite men under a single cause if he wanted to.  
Bryce fidgeted in his father’s arms, kicking his chubby little legs out of the blanket. He looked a lot like his father for now with large dark eyes and features that would become sharper with age. It was likely that young Bryce would be shipped off to the Chantry to become a Templar. He had seen first-hand the methods of a great deal of the Templar order, though that is not to say that all are as bad. He had heard that Knight Captain Cullen was a kindly sort before the events at the Circle, though that all changed in Henric’s mind when he called for the Right of Annulment.  
“Don’t be foolish, my love,” he said the term of endearment bitterly, “Alistair simply wanted my assistance with a Grey Warden matter, nothing more.” Anora folded her arms across her chest.  
“‘Nothing more’,” she repeated with a scoff and a furrowing of her brow, “I think not, he has an agenda. I mistrust him and so should you.” Henric rolled his eyes and looked back to Bryce who was smiling a toothless grin. “Don’t give me that look, Henric, you know how he is. He plays the fool so that none will expect him of any treachery he hides. The Orlesians call it the Grand Game: he played it well, right to the last moment at the landsmeet. He acted as though he did not want the Throne so that when I was coroneted, I would have no quarrel with him; but I know his sort, and I am smarter than him!” It was instantaneously clear to Henric that the years of being upon the throne had made Anora’s cheeks sore and her mind clouded. She was beginning to see threats at every corner, and such was a bad trait for a queen. Monarchs had been overthrown for less.  
“Anora,” he began, only to be cut off.  
“Your Majesty,”Anora corrected. She had never demanded that he speak to her as a common subject would before and so his surprise was not unwarranted.  
“Of course, Your Majesty,” He almost had to bite his tongue to stop himself spitting the words out, “They say there is an issue with some of the warden recruits that I must attend to personally.”  
“Why you?” A simple enough question, and yet when he went to answer, she added cruelly: “What good can you do?” as though he had not saved the kingdom if not the world with not just a single blow from his blade into the archdemon’s foul skull, but a gruelling and seemingly unending series of battles and trials that left him and his companions ever changed, wizened and hardened as they had not been before.  
“I am still the Hero of Ferelden, a former Warden Commander.”  
“Former; exactly. Your place is here now, at my side and with your children. Would you leave them? Bryce, not even a day old?” She was doing everything she could to guilt trip him into staying, though Henric could not see why she would want him there.  
“Spite shall not get you what you want, Anora, not with me. This may be another blight creeping up on us or it may be nothing. Overall, the fate of the world is more important than any personal matters.” A long moment passed, Anora sitting stiffly in her bed with the blankets about her waist and Henric softly rocking the child back and forth in his strong arms.  
“Go then, fight yet another battle if you must, but do not think I will grant you any of my soldiers. This is your own foolish decision.” Henric could argue that they were in fact his soldiers. After all, she did announce before all the lords in her kingdom that he was the commander of her armies. But in the end, he decided it was not worth the aggravation. She turned over, refusing to close her eyes but not looking at her husband all the same. He placed Prince Bryce lovingly in his cradle and left to pack some supplies. Word was sent to Alistair and Ferdinand that his decision had been made.  
The group of wardens left for Amaranthine that same day, Henric and Alistair riding side by side and speaking fondly of days past.


	2. Chapter 2

The city of Amaranthine was not so unlike Denerim in sense of the architecture being typically Ferelden. But in sense of people, Amaranthine was essentially deserted next to the bustling streets of the capital, only a select few men and women roaming the streets within its fortified walls. All of them warriors, all of them Grey Wardens. But sure enough it had changed significantly since the last time Henric was here. The streets were now more like courtyards with young hopefuls battering stuffed targets in plain clothing with blunted swords. Ferdinand told Henric that only one in thirty that came to them would be accepted into the Grey Wardens, and fewer still would survive the taint involved in the ritual.   
Ferdinand escorted Henric to the building that was once the arl’s estate, now used as the central command of the wardens. Though the prince consort insisted that he should begin showing himself to the wardens immediately to increase morale, Ferdinand was insistent that he take a few minutes to relax after a whole day’s journey north along the Pilgrim’s Path. There was something in his tone that suggested it was far from being a mere request.   
Once behind closed doors and alone, Ferdinand bid Henric take a seat anywhere, not that there were many options besides a few old wooden chairs around a table, all of which appeared to be half rotten and Ferdinand’s bed, which Henric was certain the Warden Commander had not meant when telling him to take a seat.   
“Now that we are truly alone,” Ferdinand began, “I can tell you a truth I have kept from even Alistair.” Though the Orlesian was a hard, gruff man, something in his tone seemed even more sombre making Henric all the more attentive. “There were some scouts of ours who returned a few months ago with little to report besides some blood mages in the east along the Storm Coast and a story they had heard from some locals in a fishing village.” His accent made him difficult to wholly understand so it was a short while before Henric nodded for him to continue. “The story was off a powerful blood mage, perhaps even more so than Flemeth herself. You are familiar with the legend of Flemeth I assume, the witch of the Korcari wilds and her daughters?” Henric told him that he was indeed all too familiar with the ancient tale and bid for him to continue, saying nothing of Flemeth saving him from the burning tower at Ostagar in the form of a great eagle and his own love with her daughter Morrigan for fear that the Orlesian would think him mad. “They say that the mage was a monster, but only after taking the soul of an old god into him after a blight.”   
‘It can’t be,’ Henric thought, gulping down his fear, ‘Morrigan wouldn’t allow it, surely?’ She wouldn’t have allowed their child to harm anyone, let alone become such a monster that not even the Grey Wardens could defeat.  
“What kind of monster could do that?” The Warden Commander continued, “Take that kind of foulness into themselves? Andraste guide them. With any luck this will be nothing more than a story and instead just some rogue darkspawn spellbinder, if there is even such a thing.” Ferdinand sounded suddenly fearful; his face having a long look of terror that Henric hadn’t known he was capable of. “Imagine that, Henric, an army of darkspawn led by not only an archdemon, but an archdemon joined with a powerful mage? If that is not an incentive to drink then I don’t know what is.” He seemed to visibly shake the thought off and opened the door, a clear hint for him to leave. “But it has been a long ride and I’m sure Alistair would like to see you, he has not stopped talking about you for months now.”   
Alistair’s room was only just up one flight of stairs from Ferdinand’s. Bidding him enter, the bastard prince smiled widely like a child on Feastday when he saw Henric. They stayed up late into the night and the small hours of the morning reminiscing of their travels together, their first meeting with Flemeth, and the battle against her for Morrigan’s freedom, Leliana’s endless stories and pretty songsand Sten’s ignorance to the ways of the world of humans, Oghren’s stench and Zevran’s coy arrogance. As it turned out, Alistair still resented Henric’s decision to allow Zevran to live after having been hired to kill them, though the prince consort assured him that he had little to fear and the last he had heard of the Antivan elf was that he was being hunted by the Crows, the assassins guild out of his northern homeland of Antiva.  
When the sun was beginning to stain the lower sky over the eastern Amaranthine Ocean, Henric knew it was time for him to leave and find a bed to crawl into for the night. He bid goodbye to his dear friend with a lingering hug by way of farewell and left Alistair to rest. 

Henric Cousland’s squire, a boy of thirteen, helped him into his blue and silver Grey Warden armour, as unscratched as the day it had been made for him, unlike the rest of the battle worn armours he had owned. When he became Prince Consort, he had hid is Grey Warden armour away, though it brought him great shame to do so as it had been a gift from his new warden commander, Alistair. The boy fitted the armour well enough though with unsteady hands, clearly nervous in the presence of Ferelden’s royalty. Though he indeed looked splendid in his Silverite armour, Henric knew the wardens would not think him one of them, speaking out to them all would be an ordeal.   
Behind him, the door opened and a young man entered. Henric turned to look upon him, a tall well built boy with short jet black hair and piercing blue eyes. He was a handsome enough lad, stubble forming faintly on his face and a stern look about him. He reminded Henric of himself when he had first been enlisted into the Grey Wardens, self assured if not arrogant and perhaps not a skilled with that enormous great sword as he would like to think he was. The prince consort could deduce all this just by the way the boy swaggered into the room, a trick he had learnt from Empress Celene of Orlais during one summer he had spent in her court. His armour, unlike Henric’s, was scratched and somewhat dented, the blue fabrics fading slightly with time. The Prince Consort doubted that the boy was the first to have worn it.   
“My Lord of Cousland,” He did not bow, saying the family name of the rulers of Highever as though it were a title, “I am Carver Amell, if it pleases, I have been sent to escort you to the courtyard when you’re ready.” The boy had a way of talking that made him sound indeed rude and arrogant. He had a clear Ferelden accent, though with the northern flavours of the Free Marches sparking here and there.   
“Thank you, Carver, you may take a seat whilst my squire finishes up here.” He gestured to a chair with a pewter of water and an empty goblet set out before it.   
“If it’s just the same to you, I shall not, my lord, there is little time to waste on such trivialities.” Henric was shocked. Did the young man not know to whom he spoke? When he asked Carver as such, the boy’s face stiffened and replied: “With all due respect, my lord, here you are not Prince Consort, nor are you a Warden Commander as you have given up that position; you are just a brother-in-arms.”  
“Do all the wardens feel the same about me?” Henric asked after a moment. The squire, young Elis, was becoming increasingly nervous, like as not sensing Henric’s building anger. Carver shrugged. “If they do, there is little point in me even being here.” Carver shrugged again and the prince consort fouind himself at a loss for words. He found himself thinking of his children with mournful melancholy, the comforts of the royal keep, even Anora, as cold and distant as she was. At home, it was rare for him to have to make a speech to anyone, and he was now getting the distinct impression that the Grey Wardens had lost all faith in him. It was unlikely that Alistair even truly felt Henric could fix anything. 

They were all gathered in the square of Amaranthine, the early morning sun glinting off their immaculate armour. Henric’s fears were realised when he saw the Ferelden Wardens as a collective, less than a hundred, possibly less than seventy, less than fifteen being attentive, the rest stood slumped and muttering could be heard from the younger recruits. Henric was used to addressing trained soldiers, disciplined and respectful, unlike these men and women who were like as not taken in by the wardens from farms and off the roads. Some might be nobility like Henric and his two Warden Commanders, but mostly they seemed like commoners, even a few dalish could be seen in the crowd.   
Henric did all that he could to reassure the men and women, talking of how they had nothing to fear as the protection of their kingdom was with them, that they were the strongest and bravest and most noble of all warriors, far surpassing the Templars of the Chantry and the chevaliers of Orlais. Any evil that would attempt to plague the world would meet their end at the blade of a Grey Warden. Despite all the thought and effort he had put into the speech, the Wardens still seemed to have next to no interest in what he was saying. Henric turned to Ferdinand who stood tall behind him.   
“I am no good for morale, they care little for me.” He whispered.  
“True enough,” Ferdinand grumbled, “But when they see you on the battlefield today, their minds shall soon change.” He patted Henric on the back and turned him back towards the doors of the Warden headquarters, pushing him forcefully along as a father would making their child go to bed. Alistair dismissed the wardens in the courtyard and the three of them went inside along with a man named Stroud.   
“What battlefield? What are you talking about, Ferdinand?” They stopped in the great hall, which reminded Henric almost eerily of Arl Eamon’s own great hall, where he had first seen Connor possessed by a desire demon, making his Uncle Teagan dance endlessly for his amusement. It was all he could do to not shudder at the memory. They would have had to kill the boy if not for the mage that had started the whole thing confessing of a way to save Connor without any sacrifice on his mother’s behalf.   
“Darkspawn have been seen east of here,” The man, Stroud, explained, “Alistair and I will be taking a small group of warriors to cut them out, leaving Ferdinand here with the rest to protect Amaranthine. I would assume you should like to be Alistair’s second on this?” Henric nodded reluctantly. If he was going to be going into battle, he would like to be in charge of his own men, Alistair had little experience leading an army, only being small parties of four or less, he was only in this position because he was there when Urthemiel died, though it was by Henric’s own hand. “The wardens are readying themselves as we speak; I suggest you do the same.” They all separated without another word, Alistair tugging lightly at Henric’s arm for him to follow.


End file.
